


O Holy Night

by yuletide_archivist



Category: Batman Begins (2005)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-19
Updated: 2006-12-19
Packaged: 2018-01-25 04:11:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1630811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A night at the symphony holds a surprise for Dr. Crane.</p>
            </blockquote>





	O Holy Night

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for pulling me out of my comfort zone. It was a wonderful mental stretch. And thanks to Jana, for the beta. 
> 
> Written for Sapphire Mangston

 

 

Jonathan Crane closed his eyes and tilted his head just so, listening as the blended harmonies of the orchestra filled every hollow of the grand hall.

The music seemed a living organism, and he nearly giggled at the blissful majesty of it all, forcibly restraining himself from spreading arms wide and arching his back during the sweeping crescendo.

"Fall on your knees," he breathed, words whispered with reverence, mouth tilting up, eyes opening to lean over the balcony to focus on the movements of the master conductor. "Such haunting quality."

In the box seat beside him, the strange woman looked at him with judgmental eyes, and he smiled at her. His eyes were slate blue, cold and even without the mask, he could see his gaze whither her emotion.

He could make her fear him. One spray of mist, one blissful moment of pure, hellish, hysteria; he could give her that delicious freedom that came with madness, with ultimate fright.

It was his most precious gift to bestow and he was not at all greedy with it.

But the music swept into him and with it came his distraction, for this was his weakness.

Christmas was overtly sentimental, but he had always been fascinated by it. The power of nostalgia, the power of words and music that every year created such a distinct eruption of change, created something profoundly beautiful.

Oh, but the music! Dr. Crane's profession and purpose afforded little time for such luxuries, but even those he was working for could not argue the call of the arts.

The symphony, living organisms working together to create something intricate, vibrant. The conductor, with unspoken words, with instinct, guiding those organisms with such precision. And the music! The music itself was alive, and it filled the hall and the crowd within it, and even the madness within Dr. Crane stilled, straining to hear the beauty of such songs.

Lifting the speckles he had brought for the very occasion, the Scarecrow placed them against his naked face and marked the faces of the boxes beside him, viewing the privileged residents of Gotham.

"Such pathetic creatures," he whispered to himself, as an older, overweight women nearly choking on the feathers of her boa strained to keep her eyes open. "I would do well to give you a good fright," he continued. Smiling to himself, cheered at the thought, moving along to the next, an older man in an ill-fitting suit, flipping idly through his program. "No appreciation for the fine arts," he chided.

The women beside him once again sniffled her annoyance, and when he arched a brow in her direction, she snootily shuffled in her seat and edged further away from him, pudgy arms gathering her into her lap.

He frowned slightly, and considered the trigger in his cuff. It wouldn't do, he warred with himself, to show disrespect to the orchestra, to the music.

He simply smiled and offered a cordial nod, and thought of his mask, the woman, and the moment the lights would go down following the fall of the curtain.

Irritation assuaged with the promise of fun and experiments, he turned his attention back onto the music and the crowd, as the song ended and the orchestra began to swing into a beautiful opening melody of 'Silent Night'.

Dr. Crane's profession dealt with the complications of the mind, but even he couldn't argue that drug of emotion. It was the reason that the symphony called to him as much as it did: music overrode hysteria and fear and it was more toxic than any hallucinogen or poison.

Lifting his glasses again, he began to scan the crowd below him now, the affectionately named 'cheap seats', for those who couldn't afford the luxury of a beautiful, quiet view.

It was then that he saw her.

\--

Rachel Dawes was a unique mind in a corrupt system: she was idealistic and stubborn, and in his person opinion, did not hold enough instinct for self preservation. Her alliances were weak, her morals antiquated, and, like most young ambitious idealists, she had a rather radical egotistical courage that kept her fear hidden.

Up until this night he had considered her a simple nuisance, nothing more.

This night, however, she was transformed. Even her cheap pearls and pin size diamond earrings could not disguise the ultimate beauty on her face that came with her sincere rapture.

He had never seen such emotion come from the seemingly robotic attorney. Not happiness. Not amusement. Never fear.

He knew she must have that fear inside of her. Everyone did. There was a trigger that unlocked each and every mind to its own hysteria and Dr. Crane had dedicated himself to discovering exactly what that was. It was his life's work, and the ultimate crux of his own experiments.

A woman capable of emotion such as this...

He ached for a moment of time, for a whisper of poison, just to see, to really see what kind of fear would leak out of her.

Dr. Crane was a man of discipline, but it didn't mean he didn't know how to indulge himself.

And it was Christmas.

Dr. Crane was not an evil man. Just a sociopathic one.

He was self aware enough to admit that. As a matter of fact, he was quite proud of it.

\--

"Ms. Dawes," he called out to her, as she headed past his exit, huddled in her expensive coat, something she must have saved for, he was sure. In this blistering cold winter, she needed it. This woman was all about necessity.

She faltered, knocking shoulders with the mass exodus, bright eyes curious as to who had called her.

It took her a minute, until he stepped forward and she laid eyes on her contemptuous rival, in a dark suit, black hair slicked and glossed. At just the sight of him, that ridiculous frown reappeared.

"Dr. Crane," she replied dryly, arms crossed in front of her, a defensive posture.

He nodded, a polite tilt of his head.

"What are you doing here? I didn't think Carmine Falcone was a fan of the symphony."

"He isn't," he replied crisply. "And unlike you, my life does not revolve around the criminal undercurrent of this city. I prefer to preoccupy myself with the more beautiful things this city has to offer, scant as they may be."

"Like your asylum." There was entirely too much sarcasm in her tone.

He couldn't help the slight smile. "The mind is a beautifully complicated thing, Ms. Dawes. It's capable of untold depths."

"And easy excuses."

He sighed, fingers sliding into his pockets. "Please, Ms. Dawes, it's Christmas. If you could dial down your rage to a slight simmer, you could perhaps hear what I have to say."

Her mouth twitched, an indication he had twitched her curiosity.

Coming forward, he opened the lapel of his jacket, and removed the envelope he had procured during the intermission.

"Whatever our differences, we do have more in common that you'd like to admit."

"I find that incredibly hard to believe."

"Yes, you would," he agreed, and paused, glancing up to stare at her. A hostile expression greeted him. Tapping the envelope against his fingertips, he considered reneging on his gift. "You cried," he said finally. "Such release indicates hidden depths and a mind worth delving into."

Rachel Dawes almost smiled at that. "Is that an observation or a come on?"

"Hardly either," he said, and reached out with the envelope. "What it is," he added, "Is a gift."

She stared at the envelope as if it were a roach. "I don't take bribes, Dr. Crane."

"Ms. Dawes, its Christmas."

Perhaps there was some nostalgia associated with the holiday, because the mention was enough to make slender fingers reach out and pluck the envelope from his hand.

He didn't wait for her to open it. With a nod, he turned into the cold and moved away from her. His own weakness for emotion however, faltered his steps and forced him to rotate his body, just in time to catch the smile of pure elation that came after the shock, from discovering the box seats he had just procured.

"Dr. Crane," she called out to him, before glancing up to discover him merely a foot away, smiling already fading, overtaken by her suspicion. "This doesn't mean anything."

"I understand, Ms. Dawes."

"No..." Biting her bottom lip, she sucked in her breath and managed a hesitant smile. "I wasn't finished." Eyebrow arching, he waited. "I just... It's um... thank you."

Sincerity at last.

"You're welcome, Ms. Dawes."

"But this doesn't mean I'm not going to question your decisions. I know Falcone's bought you off, and I will prove it."

He grinned at her naivety. Such emotion. Such wasted emotion. It was almost tragic.

"Well then," he said, glancing up as the snow flakes began to fall on his shoulders. "We'll always have Christmas."

The grin that graced her face for a half of second was enchanting, and in that moment, he made his own promise. One day he would show her his mask.

She deserved it, just like she deserved those tickets.

But for now, it was Christmas, and the elation was enough.

Just enough.

\--

FIN

 

 

 


End file.
